


Sansa and Margaery

by biprincess



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blood, Death, F/F, Gore, Violence, graphic death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-08-19 15:05:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8213512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biprincess/pseuds/biprincess
Summary: Modern day. Margaery is Mayor and a drug queen pin. Ramsay and Sansa meet, and then Margaery and Sansa meet.Please know that there is a description of a dead body, graphic. And quite a bit of blood. Just letting you guys know.





	

I am growing impatient.

"You said she'd be here." I say, turning to my bodyguard Ramsay. "Where is she?"

"It'll be just a moment longer." he assures me. "She's around here somewhere, don't worry."

"How do you know?" I ask with a sigh. "It's been 45 minutes, and I'm tired. Just kill her yourself."

His head whips away from the door and to me. "Really?"

"Yeah." I nod.

He shifts his weight, like he can't believe his luck. "Are you sure? I mean...I would be delighted, but only if you're sure."

I rub my sleepy eyes. "I'm sure. Just don't make a mess, alright? I don't want to be here at 5:00 o'clock tomorrow morning and have to scrub blood off of my walls."

I stand and crack my back. Ramsay beams.

"You've got it, boss."

-

I bundle up against the cold, surprised at the early morning snow. It bears down on us in fat flakes that stick to every surface; including the rim of my coffee cup, my jacket, and the tips of my eyelashes.

Let me tell you, sometimes it sucks to be Mayor. If I weren't I could be bundled up in my warm, cozy bed right now; lazily rolling over so I can flip on the tv and watch children's cartoons. But instead I am briskly walking up town to my office, thinking about (and dreading) all the paperwork that I have to do at such a disgustingly early hour.

So I remind myself as to why I even ran for office; to be Mayor in the public eye, and drug queen pin to the town's underbelly. I make fucking bank in the drug business - I'm talking 15 grand A NIGHT. And as Mayor I have people everywhere; I can literally control this town in every aspect.

But anyway. I finally make it to my office; the warmth is a welcome thing. No one else is here, and it's a bit eerie. I flick on the light and shake off the snow, stomping my feet to get rid up the rest. My coffee has grown cold in the time it's taken me to walk here, so I down it as quick as I can and try to ignore its bitter taste. I hang my coat on one of the pegs by the front door, and then I make my way to my office. I feel as though I am defrosting; water dripsdripsdrips onto the carpet. I look down to the small puddles beginning at my feet; and that's when I notice the blood.  
Holy shit, there's so much blood. I scan my office, almost in awe; it's forever staining my tan carpets, splattered across my white walls - drowning the papers on my desk and ruining them completely. 

I shed my Christian Louboutins - those things cost me a pretty penny and it would be such a shame to ruin them. I leave them by the door and take a tentative step inside - blood squishes underneath my bare foot. The sound is honestly repulsive. There is no other place that I could possibly step that would have made this unavoidable. Stepping through the blood, I mean. 

"Ramsay?" I call, tentatively, looking for any sort of evidence as to where he might be. And as to where he put her body - I doubt she's in here, because I can see the entire space. But I feel as though I should check anyway.

"Ramsay, where are you?"

And, of course, I get no response. I feel dumb saying that - obviously he's not here, Margaery. If he was, you would be able to see him.

I walk around on tiptoes, looking for clues. I find nothing. Absolutely nothing. 

But from the looks of things it's clear that Ramsay did NOT keep her death clean. I mean, I know he likes violence, but Jesus H. Christ.

I pull my phone out of my back pocket and dial him. 

I hear the phone buzz from inside this room, and a sense of dread overwhelms me. 

I shift into overdrive. I rifle through the desk drawers, through my files and and my vodka and my snacks, but come up empty. Then I try in between the couch cushions, warm blood staining my hands. I try not to gag at the feeling. I find the phone; screen slick with blood. I turn it on - he's got 14 missed calls. Ramsay was a sick son of a bitch, but he always took his calls.

I drop the phone and book it to the bathroom - I've got to wash my hands and my feet and I really need to call someone and have them clean this up, because I won't be able to finish in time if I do it on my own.   
-

I redo my lipstick in the bathroom - for the 11th time. My lips feel 10 times heavier with at this extra junk on top, but of course that is to be expected.

I sigh disgustedly and I am too forceful with the paper towel dispenser - but I get enough to wet them and scrub all the wasted lipstick away. I begin to start over.   
A toilet flushes, and my heart skips a beat. I didn't know anyone was in here. My lipstick falls from my fingers and clatters into the sink.

A petite redhead comes out of one of the stalls, and she pockets something before coming to use the sink next to me. I look into my purse before she catches me staring.

"Hey." she says, soaping up her hands. 

I give her a forced smile and take my lipstick out of the sink, drying it on my jeans. I'm not...sad about seeing all that blood, necessarily, just shaken. I didn’t know there could be that much, to b e honest.

"Hi." I respond, shaking my head so I can stop thinking about it.

She runs her hands under the water, oblivious to what is displayed upstairs. "It's cold out there, isn't it?"

Oh, cute. Small talk. 

“Yeah.” I say. “It’s pretty cold.”

Then I feel an inkling of suspicion. Why is this girl here? Why is she in this bathroom? Does she even work here? I can’t be sure - I don’t think I’ve ever seen her face before. And she’s a redhead.

The redhead.

She killed Ramsay.

I turn to her, determination hard in my voice.

"Who are you?" I ask. "Why are you here?"

"My name is Sansa." she says, flicking off the rest of the water droplets and breezing past me to get to the paper towels. "And I work here."

Liar.

"Yeah?" I say, doubtful. "Which department?" 

"Media." she explains, drying her hands.If she’s caught onto me she doesn’t show it. "You know. I had some things to do that I didn't get done last night."

"Hm." I say. "And do you just...work in the dark?"

“What?” she says, tossing the towels into the trash. 

“The lights.” I say.

She looks at me like, “So?”

“They were off when I got here.”

She shrugs. “Must not have noticed.”

I put my hands on the counter and breathe in, deep. I try to find my inner peace, or whatever bullshit it is that people say - but it doesn't work.I just find the seed of anger sprouting deep in my chest.

"Are you okay?" she asks, studying me. "Is something wrong?"

"No." I respond, out of habit. "I'm totally fine."

Except for the fact that I know you killed Ramsay and I want to know why. And more preferably, how. And maybe just get to know you in general, cause I saw what you did to my office and I found it fascinating.

Sansa makes no effort to leave, like she’s busy reading my thoughts or something.

"Margaery." she says,finally, in a tone that makes me look up into her eyes. 

"Yeah?"

"You haven't found him yet?"

I tilt my head. So she is onto me.

"No. Why? Do you know where he is?"

She grins, turns on her heel. 

"Maybe." she answers. "You should check the locker room. Something tells me that you'll find what you're looking for there."

"Yeah?" I say. "And you wouldn't happen to have anything to do with that, would you?"

"The locker room." she calls over her shoulder. "Something tells me that you should check the locker room."

I smile in spite of myself.

I run to the door, and lean out, and she’s walking down the hall, to the elevator that leads downstairs to media. 

“Why’d you do it?” I say, and I don’t have to yell because it’s so quiet here.

She pauses, for a moment, and turns to look at me one last time. A smile plays at her lips.

“Why not?” she says.

-

The cold in this room is almost like being outside again. I seriously can't even feel my feet. After I get over the initial creepiness of this place, I go around and begin to open every locker; nothing, nothing, nothing. Just clothes and purses and what have you. 

I check a few more, and then, all of a sudden, there he is. 

Locker 314. I open it up and his body tumbles out. I am slammed with the scent of blood and the beginnings of rot, and decay. 

I nudge his body with my big toe and roll him over.

His throat is slit, and his once white button down is now crimson. There's tears in his shirt, and he's missing a shoe. His hair is clotted with blood and his face is...indescribable. I seriously can't tell what he even used to look like. He is so beaten and bloody that he looks like he's been mauled by dogs or something.

Jesus H. Christ. I take a few steps backward, if only to get away from the scent alone. I trip over one of the benches. Fall, but manage to catch myself. I right myself and sit on the bench, almost hyperventilating. I have no fucking idea how to get rid of this, how to cover for Sansa, how to cover for myself because I am the fucking mayor and I can’t really let the news report that they found a dead body in the locker room of the Mayor's office.

Son of a bitch.

I don’t...I have no idea what to do here.

Or...wait. Maybe I do.

She's stuffed him into the locker, right?

Maybe I can do the same, and let someone else find him.

I stand.

It's so tiny - the locker, I mean. I bet you money that she had to break his arms to get all of him to fit. That's hardcore, and nauseating. I feel a bit sick, but I also feel a sense of...pride? Appreciation? Maybe even attraction? (To Sansa, not this body. And not because she’s a murderer, but because she was probably about to get killed herself and she handled the situation in a way so that she was victorious. And also because she did this to Ramsay Bolton. Ramsay Bolton! Sorry not sorry - that's pretty impressive.) But anyway - I know that this not the way that I am supposed to feel right now, and I do feel kinda bad for feeling it.

I heave him over my shoulder, and force his body back into the locker. He’s heavy, but I assumed he would be. I’ve seen enough crime shows to know how weighted dead bodies get. I have to push my knee into his abdomen and push his shoulders in - it’s like dealing with an incredibly broken marionette doll. But I finally get him in. He’s kind of...sagging, head lolling to one side, and I keep it from moving with my hand and yank it out of the right before it slams shut so hard and so fast that I swear the frame cracks.

And I don’t have time to worry about the blood soaking my clothes - instead I wash away all the blood that's begun to form underneath the locker, and then the locker door itself, and then the bench, too, and I book it out of there as fast as I can. I hope I've left everything almost exactly as it was, the traces of us hidden well enough to cover for both Sansa and I.

We’re in this together now.


End file.
